


A Study Upon Certain Letters

by orphan_account



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Gen, John Church Hamilton is looking through his father's stuff for the biography, John Church is kind of an asshole too, M/M, This is kinda angsty, but not really I guess, he finds something... interesting, i think, it's unresolved, lowkey gay, probably not historically compliant, read it I promise it's good, set in the 1800s, sort of Eliza/Alexander but not really, these tags are a mess why does ao3 let us do this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 21:34:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6924301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Church Hamilton is editing his father's works and he finds something... Queer. In both manners of the word, if he's being honest. </p><p>(Or, in which John Church finds out that his father was not exclusively interested in the ladies, and some stuff happens)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study Upon Certain Letters

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how this happened, honestly, but I think it was worth writing. For the new people: I don't edit, really (I think it messes with creativity and screws up the writing process), and it's very rare that I fact-check. So, if there's something off, tell me! 
> 
> There's really nothing else, honestly- so enjoy!

John Church Hamilton rests in an armchair, sprawled out next to a fireplace, sifting through paper. His eyes are dull and half-closed with exhaustion and boredom; they retain none of the spark or shine that the rest of the Hamilton siblings have, even when he’s not reading through historical documents about the Revolutionary War. He supposes he should be more interested by said documents, considering they’re the only scrap left of his father in the earthly realm, but it’s been decades since Alexander Hamilton died, anyway. John had only been twelve when his father was shot in a duel with his political opponent, and sometimes he’ll feel guilt when he realizes how faded his memories are of his own father, but for now, it’s midnight and he should be asleep but instead he’s reading up on Alexander Hamilton’s war buddies because his mother told him to (which feels ridiculous). Until a name startles him out of his stupor. 

“John Laurens?” he mumbles to himself, sitting up a little straighter. This- this is one he hasn’t heard of, except in the barest of whispered conversations he hardly remembers between his mother and father during his childhood. This is a letter from his father to another war friend, speaking about how deeply affected many would be by this John Laurens’s death. So, then, why has John never heard of him? A memory, or rather, a collection of memories ending the same way, comes back to him- Alexander regaling them with tales of his war mishaps, or the courageous, heroic friends he’d made as an aide-de-camp. But sometimes- sometimes he’d stumble over a sentence, and his eyes would cloud over, and suddenly he would just stop speaking. Eliza would rush them off to bed, murmuring that their father has just been upset, dears, you must’nt worry, the war was difficult and quite often memories will come up. Always a question left behind, always an unspoken word. 

Interest piqued, John scans their letters, then freezes. _What?_

He mutters aloud, “Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my Dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by action rather than words, to convince you that I love you.” For a moment John is frozen, but quickly he recovers. _No, no, that’s quite alright. They must have been very close friends. He states it himself._ Eager to move on, he pulls another letter from the stack. “To excite their emulation, it will be necessary for you to give an account of the lover—his size, make, quality of mind and body, achievements, expectations, fortune,  &c. In drawing my picture, you will no doubt be civil to your friend; mind you do justice to the length of my nose and don’t forget, that I-” John gasps, unable to stop himself, and immediately reaches for a quill and scratches out the ending five words without even stopping to think. At the top, he writes, “I must not publish the whole of this.” and continues on. _My father, a sodomite?_ The thought is terrifying. This would ruin his legacy, not preserve it. The idea continues to resonate as he peruses the other letters, growing tenser with every word he reads. Sonnets, poems, forthright declarations of love. The returning letters of John Laurens are more often than not just as awful, if not more offensive, and soon his fireplace is piled high with burning paper, as John Church Hamilton shoves away his guilt time after time. He’s choking on plumes of smoke, and he can feel the dark, disappointed eyes of his father watching him from somewhere far away, perhaps accompanied by the blue eyes of his lover. Plaintive. 

He stares down at the parchment, but doesn’t really see it.

Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens are meeting each other, hands are being shaken, and John Church is close enough to see the blush tinging Laurens’s cheeks, and the sly smile his father gives in return. He turns away in disgust.

A shift, and Alexander and Laurens are lounging side by side on the branch of a tree in uniforms he recognizes from the Revolution, a couple shirt buttons undone (John Church’s stomach lurches a little- it implies exactly what he thinks it’s implying). They’re overlooking a lake, and it’s sunset, the sky turning red, reflected in the clear water. John Church turns around and sees, miles away, tents whose lights are just beginning to flicker on, men bustling around. The two men seated on a limb up above are far away from any war, murmuring to each other, saying things he can’t hear, but they’re blissful. Happy. He feels no guilt, though. 

The scene changes. It’s a battlefield, now, and they’re fighting side by side. It’s the Battle of Yorktown. Both men are splattered with blood, and their expressions are grim but determined as they fight seemingly as one man, strikes perfectly coordinated. John Church watches as, over and over again, they save each other’s life, and watches as glances are traded that have a world of secrets. And still, he experiences no shame. 

One more change. Now it’s his father smiling over a baby’s crib- Philip Sr., John presumes, seeing as there are no other children- arms resting on its sides as he sings the child a lullaby, voice soft and lilting. He’s never seen his father sing before, John realizes. Eliza enters the room, holding a letter in her hands. There’s an apprehensive sadness in her dark eyes as she hands Alexander the paper. There’s a sinking feeling in John Church’s stomach as he watches his father open the letter and read it. Watches as his father’s face crumples in on itself, then closes off completely. Alexander rests his head in his hands, and he watches as a tear slips out of his father’s eye. 

“Alexander?” Eliza asks, voice soft. 

“John Laurens is… dead.” Alexander sounds as if his very heart has been ripped out, and he stands abruptly and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him. 

Philip begins to cry. 

John Church Hamilton jolts awake, hand contracting on the letter, crumpled in his fingers. His head turns of its own volition towards the fireplace. Empty. Cold. Nothing left but ashes. 

He throws the letter to the ground, and carries on.

**Author's Note:**

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> Drop a comment if you liked this! I really value your input! Please read my other fics, too, if you like, as this one didn't have much effort involved, and is a lot less interesting than my other works. Anyway... Hopefully you liked it! 
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> (I'm so awkward in notes and summaries; I apologize for existing)


End file.
